


The Brave

by FireBurnsBrighter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, John POV, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Not really sure yet, POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV Male Character, Post Reichenbach, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:04:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireBurnsBrighter/pseuds/FireBurnsBrighter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're dead, Sherlock. Why is that? Why do you have to be dead? You can't be. You wouldn't leave me here like this. Then again, you always were selfish. I forgive you though, I always do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I can't forget

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I'm hoping to make this long. And it's going to be angsty, to the best of my abilities. I kind of love angst now. I know.  
> So, enjoy! Or, you know, don't..

It's dark. It's cold. It's too quiet. But I'm not scared. I can see you, Sherlock, and that keeps me breathing steadily, keeps my feet from falling out from beneath me as I run faster than I thought I ever could. Keeps me brave.

You turn around, you shout something, I can't hear. You hold out your hand. I'm not running fast enough. I reach out to grasp your fingers, but I fall short. I run faster, but every time I try to grab your hand, it recedes further. I frown, why can't I reach you?

I speed up, my breaths laboured, I jump, I think I've caught you, but your body disintegrates beneath my fingertips into sand, and I'm in Afghanistan again, cold gun metal pressing into my side. I don't have time to wonder how I got here. War is action.

I hear a shot, dive for cover, pull out my gun.   
  
I look at my surroundings. Tall dry grass. I hear a noise, turn around. I see a body, a silhouette against the harsh sun. A male, sitting up, facing me, but I can't see his face. I approach wearily, gun held out.

The glare clears, and I can see again. It's you, Sherlock. What are you doing here? 

I hear more gunfire. Now is not the time for questions. I duck again, and try to shout for you to get down, too, but it's too loud. The assault of bullets continues, and suddenly you stiffen, your eyes widen and your features contort into a picture of agony as a patch of brilliant red blooms across your chest, staining the crisp white of your shirt. You fall backwards, slowly, graceful even in death.

I lean over your body, heart pounding. I have seen this happen many times during the war, yet it never gets easier. With you, it's worse.

The scene morphs, and I'm hovering over your body in a different place, a street full of noisy traffic and uncaring civilians. The blood is streaked across your face instead of pouring from your heart, but you have the same dead look in your eyes, the same vacancy that convinces me that it's over. That you're gone.

I wake with a gasp and a strangled scream caught in my throat. My cheeks are lined with tears, and I'm covered in a cold sweat. I look around, and it takes me a second to remember not to expect the surroundings of 221b, but a small, dismal flat instead.

I go through to the dingy bathroom with a pronounced limp. That's right, it came back after you died. You were my ticket to danger, to the war zone, but now I've lost you. You'd probably laugh. Tell me that it's all in my head. I'm better than this. But I'm not.

 

I splash cold water on my face and look up into the mirror. Thin face, weathered skin, dark shadows under my eyes, no hint of a smile.

 

This is what you've done to me, this is what you've reduced me to.   
Even when you're dead, you can still manipulate my emotions, still haunt my dreams.

You're dead, Sherlock. Why is that? Why do you have to be dead? You can't be. You wouldn't leave me here like this. Then again, you always were selfish. I forgive you though, I always do _._

I sigh. Forgiving you won't bring you back. You aren't ever coming back. It's been a month. I need to accept it. I try to, everyday, but I don't know if I can.

You had no idea, the effect that you had on people. Well, that's a lie. Of course you knew. You knew, and you used it as an advantage to get people to do whatever you wanted them to. I'd like to say that I didn't fall for it, but I did, at times. Because I trusted- because I  _trust_ \- you.

 

 Deep breaths. I get up from where I've sunk to the bathroom floor and limp back to my bedroom. I try to laugh. You'd be laughing.


	2. Did you know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I never stopped writing the blog, you know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, so the angst continues. It should get longer eventually. Maybe even.. happier. Later. Hm.

I never stopped writing the blog, you know. All those cases that I never had time to write up, and all the ones you thought didn't deserve to be written up, they're sitting there, just waiting to be posted. Except that they never will be. No-one wants to read about the antics of a fake genius and his doctor friend. Well, maybe they do, but wouldn't want to risk looking like they don't believe the media.

I read over them, sometimes. I can usually get through about three before I break down again. When I'm feeling particularly sentimental, I'll have a look at your website. I've memorized fifty of those tobacco ash types you described. Not as good as you, but it's for sentimental reasons, after all. It's not like you'd understand.

I went to Harry's, about a week after. She's never been good at condolences and comfort, a bit like you. When she opened the door, the place smelt heavily of booze. I just sighed. She knew what had happened, of course. It was on the news. Every one saw it. I switched it off whenever it came on. It made me too upset, and I knew that you never liked being on TV or in the newspaper, anyway 

It didn't stay in the limelight for long, and I suspect that Mycroft had something to do with that, but I'm only grateful until I remember that all of this is his fault. I try not to dwell on it. But I hope he feels guilty, the bastard.

I got a job at another surgery, low profile. Pays about average, enough to keep me in this little flat. I couldn't afford to stay at Baker Street anymore, though I doubt that even if I could I would have. To many memories, too much pain.

I haven't spoken to Mrs Hudson since the funeral. I avoid her, though I feel guilty about it. I think she understands, though. She loved you too you know.

Did you know? Did you know how much we cared about you? Me, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Greg, even Mycroft in his twisted way. We all loved you, we all would have been there. What could have been so bad in the end that you didn't think that coming to us was an option? You could have come to me, Sherlock. I would have done anything for you. I think you knew that. I hope you did.

And there it is again. Your working your way into my brain, even when I try to avoid anything to do with you. I avoid coffee. I avoid hats. I avoid expensive looking clothes, and men in sharp suits. It's silly little things like this that I avoid to try and lessen the pain. The only thing I have of you, I keep hidden in the bottom drawer of my bedside cabinet.

One if your blue scarves, still carrying your scent. Mrs Hudson gave it to me at the funeral. I'm grateful and resentful. I don't like to look at it much, but the knowledge that it's there, a piece of you, however insignificant, means a lot to me.

It's only a little piece of you, but it's all I have.


End file.
